CHAPTER NINE

COPENHAGEN—April

From the window of his small office at Copenhagen University, overlooking the Frue Plads on one side and the Nørregade running into it, Associate Professor Arne Nordberg stared sourly at the pretty co-eds hurrying past, books in arms, their short skirts and lack of brassieres raising lewd thoughts in the professor’s mind. But they were useless thoughts, he knew. For some unknown reason he never seemed to be able to impress the pretty ones, and the ugly ones didn’t interest him, though he had never been able to impress them, either. His hints that favors might be returned in the form of better grades were invariably met with, at best, blank stares; at worst, by barely concealed smiles of derision.

If he had money, Nordberg assured himself, it would all be different; his shortness would be forgiven, as well as his tendency toward obesity, or the fact that at the young age of thirty-two he was rapidly losing his hair. Or if he had an international reputation like some members of the faculty, there would be, he was sure, no problem. Girls would be all over him like they were over that idiot Carl Becker, and for what? So the man won a so-called prestigious award once. It had been pure luck, those things mostly were. But the sad fact was that Arne Nordberg had very little money; he could barely afford the girls he visited over the sex shops in the Istedgade, beyond the railroad station, and then only the cheapest. And as for scholarly attainment, of the few papers he had managed to write all but one had been refused publication by the University Press, although they were constantly importuning the faculty for submissions, and seemed to print every piece of garbage sent in by anyone else. The world was against him, and that was a fact. The professor knew it was a fact, although just why the world should take this unfair attitude was beyond him.

So he was considered strict in class? Why shouldn’t he be strict in class? Who did anything for him that he should do anything for others? He had also heard it said, snidely, behind his back, that he was also unintelligible in class. That, simply, was a lie. If others couldn’t or wouldn’t recognize erudition when they saw it or heard it, it was just too bad. So he didn’t have any friends among the faculty? Why should he go out of his way to appear friendly to a bunch of louts who seemed to think friendship consisted solely of drinking another person’s liquor or eating another person’s food? The truth was he was as bright as anyone on the staff, although naturally nobody would admit it. He was also as educated, as intelligent, as personable. But what had it gotten him? Nothing! Take Carl Becker, for example. He would bet that Carl had been in the skirts of half the girls in his classes. And what did Becker have? Tell the truth—a laugh like a hyena, and little else!

He became aware that his intercom was buzzing and he glared at it. My God! A man couldn’t even take a few minutes to cogitate, to reflect, to relax after the grind of four hours of trying to pound some historical facts into the heads of a bunch of big-breasted, succulent-bottomed numbskulls, without being constantly interrupted. He considered disregarding the intercom, but he knew that his secretary—a dessicated, flat-chested widow ten years his senior he had once considered seducing—his face flushed at the memory although he still wondered how it might have been—would continue her racket until he answered. With a scowl he flipped the proper switch downward.

“Yes? Now what?”

“There’s someone here to see you, Professor.” She had a voice like a crane, as if there were something wrong with her throat. Why couldn’t she at least have sounded intriguing, even if she wasn’t?

“Professor?”

He brought his mind back to the matter at hand. “Who is it?”

“He says he’s a cousin of yours, Professor. Knud Christensen.”

Nordberg frowned at the telephone. Christensen? It seemed faintly familiar. A cousin? Some distant relative of his mother’s, as he recalled. Fishermen, weren’t they? From somewhere down in Nykøbing, or Korsør, or one of those other Godforsaken villages in the south. What on earth could a fisherman cousin—not even a real cousin, but one of those hundred-times removed cousins—want of him? The answer wasn’t even a problem. Money, of course. All these country yokels seemed to think if you lived in Copenhagen, you were rich. If you were a professor at the university, you were made of money. Well, little did they know! He stared at the intercom, seeing in his mind’s eye his middle-aged secretary at the other end of the line, leaning over to press the intercom buttons. He tried to picture the view down her gaping blouse, and then recalled that she was flat-chested, or so he had to suppose from the tight brassieres and buttoned-up blouses she wore. Why couldn’t he have had the luck to be assigned a good-looking secretary? Like Carl Becker—?

“Professor?”

He cleared his throat. “Tell him I can’t see him. I’m busy.”

“Yes, sir.” Nordberg’s hand went thankfully to push the intercom switch, but before he could do so his secretary’s voice came back. “Professor, Mr. Christensen says he’ll wait.”

Damn! Nordberg stared about the small office. There was no escape other than the one door leading past his secretary’s desk and the undoubtedly raw-boned and equally undoubtedly fish-smelling peasant outside. Nordberg thought a moment and then allowed himself a feeling of righteous anger. What did he owe this perfect stranger? Everyone was constantly trying to take advantage of him, and he wasn’t going to stand for it! Enough was enough! He would simply tell this oaf he was wasting his time, and that would be that. He didn’t have to explain the circumstances; he knew if he were the richest man in Denmark he would still refuse the man money. What did he owe the man, anyway? He steeled himself and glowered at the intercom.

“Tell him to come in.”

The door opened and Nordberg coldly considered the man who stood there. Christensen had dressed in his Sunday best, and did not appear particularly raw-boned, although he was certainly big. He also had a thick head of curly hair, and not for the first time Nordberg resented his father’s baldness that had apparently been transferred through genes to blight his son’s existence. Christensen also did not smell of fish, although this, Nordberg thought sourly, would not get him one penny. Christensen carried a small cloth bag with him and smiled with a bit of uncertainty at his distant cousin. Nor was any smile going to do the lout any good, Nordberg thought with an inner sneer, and did not even offer the man a chair.

“What can I do for you?”

“I thought—” Christensen paused and looked around, finally finding a chair and sitting in it. He edged it to the desk, his small bag held firmly in his lap. Here it comes, Nordberg thought, and waited, his face expressionless. Christensen studied the ranks of books on the shelves that enclosed the tiny office, and finally brought his attention back to his cousin. Rather than speak again, he opened his bag and brought out a piece of metal, placing it on the desk. “I thought you might be able to tell me if this had any value.”

Nordberg frowned. What was this? A new way to ask for money? Or an attempt to use the fiction of their relationship to peddle something? Or was it simply a case of thinking of him as one would of a pawnbroker, which was simply insulting? Or even simply asking his advice. Others on the faculty occasionally served as consultants, but they were paid for it. He picked the piece up and studied it without much interest, finally looking up at Christensen.

“Where did you get this? Do you have more?”

“I have a few more pieces with me. There’s lots more at home.” Christensen hastily brought out the rest of his samples and laid them on the desk. Nordberg looked at them, his interest at least piqued. They were undoubtedly old, very old. How had a mere fisherman come by them? He looked up again.

“Where did you say you found them?”

“You see—” Christensen began, and then paused. He was never very good with words. Maybe it would be better if he began at the beginning. “You see, my brothers were both drowned three months ago. There was a very bad storm—”

So he was going to ask for money after all! The pieces were just a lead-in; the sob-story was about to begin. Well, better to cut it off quickly.

“I’m afraid—” Nordberg began.

“I wanted to bring up the body of my youngest brother,” Christensen went on. He hadn’t heard the interruption; his mind was back in the icy water cutting Gustave’s body loose. “He was tangled in the shrouds. So I went down and found the wreckage of the boat, and brought up his body for decent burial.”

Despite himself, Nordberg was impressed. “You dove for his body—when?”

“Three months ago.”

“In January? Where was all this?”

“Off the Gedser lighthouse. Yes, it was January,” Christensen said simply. “It was cold, but it had to be done. But what I’m trying to say is that when I was down there I saw this box, this crate, made of steel. It must have come from the second boat I found, which must have been sunk a long time ago, because I never heard of the sinking, and it was less than a mile from my house. Anyway, when the weather got better—last night, in fact—I went out in my dory and I dove and brought the box up. And when I opened it I found these pieces. And a lot more.”

“How much more?”

Christensen shrugged. “Much, much more. Hundreds and hundreds of pieces. Oh, most of them were small, like beads and buttons and things like that. I didn’t count them. There were too many.” He looked down at his samples and then up to Nordberg’s face. “Do you think they have any value?”

Nordberg bent over the pieces once again, now studying them intently. There was something vaguely familiar with the piece he was looking at, a small slightly curved mask with open eyeholes, too small for an adult, probably for a child, or possibly a small woman. The material, he was sure, was gold, almost pure gold if he was not mistaken. He tried to recall where he had read about something like this. It seemed to him he had been reading or researching another matter, when he had run across something about some pieces … Still, he was sure it would come back to him in time. In the meantime, caution was clearly indicated in giving this peasant any information.

“Value?” He shook his head. “I doubt it. I would have to see the rest of the pieces you found to give you any idea at all. But if these pieces are representative—” He looked across the desk. “Are they representative?”

Christensen swallowed miserably. “The other pieces mostly are a lot smaller, but some are bigger. There’s a cup … I think it’s a cup … or maybe a bottle …”

“You see? No, I’m afraid you found something somebody probably threw away. You can see for yourself. They’re obviously made of some inferior alloy. See how easily it bends. And as for the workmanship—if you can call it workmanship—it’s simply childish. I doubt they would be worth more than their value as scrap. Still,” Nordberg added, as if trying to put the best face on the matter, “I won’t say they’re totally worthless. Or at least I won’t say it until I’ve had a chance to see the rest of what you found. Can you bring it to me?”

“I—”

“Or possibly it would be less trouble for you if I were to come over to your place?”

“You’d go to that much trouble?” Christensen asked anxiously. Nordberg shrugged modestly. “Could you come back with me? I live in Gedser, on Falster. It’s only a few hours by train.”

Don’t rush, Nordberg told himself sternly. No show of the slightest anxiety over this freak accident. Some of these country types are shrewder than they look. And you may have fallen into something just because you were smart enough to see this yokel. Others, like Carl Becker, for example, wouldn’t have wasted a minute on him.

“Today? I’m afraid not. In any event, I don’t believe it’s all that important,” Nordberg said, and forced himself to bite back a yawn. He reached over and flipped the pages of his appointment calendar, being careful that his visitor could not see the blank pages. “Ah! How about a week from Sunday?” Even as he said it he wondered if perhaps he was being just a bit too reckless; if given too much time the man might go to someone else for an opinion.

“Not before?” Christensen could not keep the disappointment from his voice.

Nordberg flipped the pages again, and then reached for a pencil. He crossed out something on a page. “I’ll postpone that,” he said, half to himself, and looked up. “Saturday next, then,” he said, making a great concession. “I’ll drive down to your place on Saturday.” He nudged the pieces on his desk. “If you wish you can leave these here with me. I can try to find out what alloy they’re made of. Or you can take them back with you, whichever you prefer.”

Christensen shrugged helplessly and came to his feet.

“You might as well keep them,” he said, and sighed. “Until Saturday, then. Anyone in Gedser can tell you where Knud Christensen lives.” He walked to the door and then paused, twisting the empty cloth bag in his hands. “And thank you,” he said sincerely, remembering his manners. “Thank you for your time.”

Nordberg waved the thanks away gracefully.

It came to Nordberg at three o’clock in the morning. He left his bed and padded to the front room of his small apartment, lighting a lamp, and then searching the bookshelves for the reference copy he wanted. He drew it down, the excitement in him growing, and flipped the pages until he reached the section he wanted. He found the part that had teased his memory, found the reference it made to another book, and hastily searched for the second book without bothering to replace the first. He almost tore the pages in his anxiety to find what he wanted. He thrust the page under the lamp. There it was! There it was! A picture of the very mask that was now locked in his desk at the university. And there! Look there! That diadem, with the owl’s head at the end of each of the hanging chains; the owl’s head of Athena! My God! Was it possible? He felt himself begin to tremble. The Schliemann treasure in the hands of a stupid fisherman from Gedser, when the entire world was convinced it was in Russia someplace, most probably at the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad? Was it possible?

He fell into a chair, eagerly reading a description of the treasure, and then fell back, his mind churning. He had suspected the pieces had value, but nothing like this! He forced himself to try and think clearly. Saturday was four long days away. Could he take the chance and wait that long to go to Gedser and verify that the treasure was, indeed, the Schliemann collection? Suppose the fisherman went to someone else for advice, or an opinion, in the meanwhile? Or suppose he had listened to his words and went and disposed of it for scrap to some metal dealer who, in all probability in that part of the country, wouldn’t know the difference and would bale it together with other scrap and sell it to some factory where it would all go into the furnace together, iron, steel, tin—and the Schliemann gold! The thought was too horrifying to contemplate. Or the metal dealer would recognize the material as gold, which was even worse!

But on the other hand, if he went down to Gedser any sooner than the following Saturday, wouldn’t the peasant wonder at his early arrival? Would the clod begin to suspect that possibly the pieces he had found were of greater value than mere scrap? What excuse could he give for hurrying down to Gedser that would not arouse suspicions on the part of this Knud Christensen?

It was a most difficult problem, and one that prevented him from sleeping the rest of the night. He sat and gnawed his nails, staring at nothing, trying to find a suitable answer. And then an even greater problem formed itself in his mind, relegating the one of a reason for an early appearance at Gedser to a very minor position. He sat a bit erect as he contemplated this new, and far more frightening, possibility. Eventually, no matter what he did with the treasure, word would get out! The world would know that the Schliemann treasure had been found! And Knud Christensen was part of that world! There would be newspaper articles. It would be marveled at in the magazines and on the radio! Pictures would be shown. Would it be possible that with all the attendant publicity, the clod would not hear of it? And if—or, rather, when—he did hear of it, what would his reaction be?

A cold, eerie feeling gripped Nordberg. There was only one solution …

He came to his feet, now moving almost marionettelike, as if his actions were being controlled by an Arne Nordberg he had never known. He went to his bookshelf again, but this time to bring down his pharmacopoeia, carrying it back to the lamp. He sat and pulled the heavy volume into his lap, leafing through its pages. He would require a poison that could be introduced in liquor, for he was sure that a man like Knud Christensen drank. The poison would have to be slow-acting, for Nordberg had no intention of watching the giant die, or be caught in those frightening hands should the oaf suspect what was happening to him. And then Nordberg paused, thinking, again as if his thoughts were those of a stranger, as if he were standing to one side watching Arne Nordberg think, and being able to read those thoughts. There were certain pills, drugs of some sort, which could not—or, rather, should not—be taken with alcohol. A strong dose of one of those drugs in a bottle of liquor … And if, for some reason, an autopsy should be ordered, the cause of the suicide, or accidental death, would be all too evident.

He sat and coldly made his plans for the following day, but one small part of his mind kept praising him for his courage, for his ability to recognize a situation and take the necessary steps to handle it. Another portion of his mind, though, kept hoping his nerve would not fail at the proper moment.

The pharmacist who furnished him with the sleeping tablets was careful to caution him not to drink anything alcoholic while using the pills, and Arne Nordberg assured him that he was quite aware of the consequences of doing so. He next stopped by his office, which was in the next block, to advise his secretary that he had been taken ill on the way to school and would not be able to take any classes that day—which was easily believed with his high color, his feverish eyes, and his shaking hands. He then drove to the bank and withdrew two thousand kroner, which left his balance woefully thin. But there was nothing to be done about it; this was no time to be niggardly.

His next stop was at a liquor store. Again he decided not to be cheap, and purchased a quite expensive bottle of whiskey. His coldly calculating brain, now directing him almost without his volition, told him that the drugs he had purchased might well cloud the otherwise water-clear aquavit, but they would be invisible in the amber color of scotch whiskey. Besides, scotch whiskey, at those prices, made a more prestigious present.

He then got into his car and started for Gedser. At a rest area he pulled from the road, and in a secluded area he carefully opened the bottle of whiskey and inserted the pills. He recapped the bottle and shook it to dissolve the pills, and then held it to the light; there was no sediment visible. He put the bottle into his handbag and pulled back onto the highway for Gedser, forcing himself not to think of the bottle by his side, concentrating instead on what he would do when he had his hands on the treasure.

There were two choices: one, should he turn the treasure in to the authorities? There was no doubt that if he did so, his fame would be great. He could see it in all the scholarly journals, every historical or archaeological publication: Professor Arne Nordberg, the man who discovered the long-lost Schliemann treasure! It could and probably would mean advancement. At the very least it would mean, it had to mean, the publication of a paper on how and where the treasure had been located. He would bring in the history of the treasure, a history of the Schliemanns, Heinrich and Sophie. No university press in the world would turn that paper down!

On the other hand, selflessness was fine, but here he would be with a fortune in his hands, if only he had the slightest idea as to how to exploit the situation. How on earth could he make a decent sum of money from his possession of the treasure? Assuming, of course, he managed to get his hands on it—but the thought of not getting his hands on it was just too terrible to consider, so he put it out of his mind. No, he would get the treasure one way or another. But what then? As far as he knew there had never been any reward offered for the recovery of the collection. Nobody had ever considered it lost, merely taken a bit illegally by the Russians and hidden away all these years. Possibly if he were to contact someone in the Russian Embassy? But if the Russians had managed to lose the treasure, if someone had managed to steal it from them, letting them know he had it could be suicidal.

And one could scarcely put an advertisement in the newspapers saying that one had the treasure for sale, could one? Obviously, one could not. Still, there simply had to be some way to get at least a portion of the great value of the treasure. With the amount of money he was considering—an amount that made his head spin just thinking about it—he tried to picture all the things he could do, all the places he could go, all the girls he could have. The thought of the pleasures that could be purchased with unlimited funds brought a twinge to his loins, but he put the sensuous thoughts aside for the time. First he had to get his hands on the treasure.

His palms were damp with sweat where they gripped the steering wheel, holding it as if to sustain himself. He pressed harder on the accelerator, hurrying to Gedser, forcing himself not to think of the bottle in the bag beside him.

It was late afternoon when Nordberg finally arrived at the Christensen home. He had hesitated several times before finally stopping at the post office as being the least noticeable place at which to ask directions. Knud Christensen was fixing a harness in the barn when Nordberg pulled into the driveway, turned off his noisy engine, and climbed out. The sound of the ancient car’s asthmatic wheezing brought Christensen to the doorway. He frowned and walked down to greet his unexpected guest.

“Professor Nordberg? But, I thought—”

Nordberg shrugged a bit self-deprecatingly.

“I found it was impossible for me to break my appointment for Saturday,” he said lightly. “A faculty tea, and I’m expected to address them, you know. And I’m busy every other day for the next several weeks. But since I had made a sort of promise to you”—he smiled—“and since it was a nice day for a drive, I thought—” He allowed the words to slide into silence. Fortunately for him, it did happen to be a nice day, although he had not noticed it until then.

“Good! Good!” Christensen said, pleased at the professor’s presence. It would save him from four more days of wondering at the possible value of his find. It did not occur to him to be suspicious in any way of this erudite man, a relative, even though a distant one. Knud Christensen was not by nature a suspicious person. He tilted his head in the direction of the house. “It’s—the things—are in there.”

He led the way, knowing the neighbors would think it strange for him to be having a guest who boasted a car, even an old one, but also knowing that a visit from a relative could easily be explained, especially after the tragedy he had suffered. Inside the house, the curtains drawn, Knud lit a lamp and dragged the heavy steel case from the closet. He reached in, fishing out the four packages, and carefully unwrapped them, placing their contents down in small piles. He then looked up at the professor anxiously.

“Well? What do you think?”

Nordberg could scarcely keep his hands from trembling as he reached for a small gold cup and brought it up to his eyes for closer inspection. He pursed his lips in his most professional manner, studying the cup with ill-concealed disinterest. Inside he was chortling, for he was positive he was actually looking at the missing Schliemann treasure; the night before, in Schliemann’s own book Ilios, he had seen that same cup in illustration. But there was no indication of his feelings in his expression of disdain. He put the cup down and picked up a necklace, sure as he did so that the quadrangular beads would be seventy in number, just as Schliemann had described it. The Schliemann treasure! And he had it in his hands, practically! He would have liked to ask the clod for more details as to how he had managed to come on the treasure, although with the collection in his hands he now knew he would never turn it over to any authorities for the puerile purpose of mere academic credit. It was worth a fortune, tons of money, mountains of money! He tossed the necklace down carelessly and with a final sigh made a sort of sweeping motion with one hand, a gesture that took in the entire collection, obviously condemning it to oblivion.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and actually managed to look a trifle chagrined. You should have been an actor, he said to himself, and drew his lips into a grimace of pity. “But it’s what I was afraid of. You see”—his voice took on the tones of confidentiality—“after you left yesterday, I had the pieces you brought me checked by our engineering laboratory. And discovered what I suspected, that they were an alloy of tin and white metal. The cheapest sort of costume jewelry, the sort of things servants buy in the cheap bazaars. And not particularly good examples of even that. I had hoped that some of the stuff you had here might be of better quality, but it all appears to be the same sort of—of—” He hesitated and then shrugged delicately, hating to hurt the other man’s feelings. “Well, to be frank, junk.”

Knud’s face had been slowly falling during this recitation. Although he had feared such a report, especially after his visit to Copenhagen the previous day, his disappointment was still visible. He looked at the pieces piled on the floor and shook his head disconsolately, not knowing what to say.

“I know,” Nordberg went on sympathetically. “I can understand how you feel. I’m disappointed too.” He looked at Christensen with what he hoped was a look of compassion. “Tell me—ah—cousin, what do you plan to do with this—this—these things?” His hand indicated the piles of pieces on the floor.

Knud raised his shoulders and tried to smile. “I have no idea. Try to sell them to the local bazaar, I suppose. Or for scrap.” He stared at the pieces, wondering what insane motive had driven him to dive for them. And to sacrifice a good anchor for them. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t. Maybe donate them to the church for their next raffle. They ought to be worth something.”

“Not very much, I’m afraid,” Nordberg said, and frowned as he considered the problem. A possible solution seemed to occur to him. “I can make a suggestion, if you should be interested. I have a collection of curiosities, of junk, if you will. Things without value, such as these. Conversation pieces, you know. If you would be interested in selling them to me, they might be amusing to some of my friends—” He hurriedly raised a hand. “I couldn’t pay very much, of course, but then the stuff isn’t worth very much, if anything. But I’m sure it would be more than the church would ever get trying to raffle such things off. Or more than you could get from the local bazaar …”

Christensen’s face began to clear. His eyes brightened a bit. “How much do you think—?”

Nordberg thought a moment and then shrugged, as if to say that after all it was only money, and money which he could easily afford, certainly more easily than his obviously poor cousin.

“Well,” he said, his voice deprecating his generosity, “after all, you went to a lot of trouble diving for this stuff, bringing it up from the bottom of the sea. That alone ought to be worth something. What about—say—a thousand kroner?”

Christensen took a deep breath of relief. A thousand kroner! It wasn’t, of course, what he had hoped for when he found the stuff, but it was far more, he knew, than what any bazaar would offer him for the stuff. And certainly far more than its value as scrap. It would buy a new anchor, and while what was left wouldn’t pay for any memorial for his brothers, it would at least make a down-payment on some sort of metal cross to replace the crude wooden one over Gustave’s grave.

“That’s very generous,” he said, and held out his big hand. Nordberg gripped it, his diffidence at the compliment apparent. Knud swallowed, as if ashamed, after such generosity, to be asking. “I don’t suppose—?”

“You mean, can I pay you now? Of course,” Nordberg said, disparagingly, as if he carried thousands of kroner with him every day. He brought out his wallet and separated a thousand kroner from the pile of bills there, allowing Christensen to note his affluence. It did strike him for a moment that it was a shame to be wasting a thousand kroner on a dead man, but he could see no other way to handle the affair. He certainly had no intention of waiting for Christensen to die and then recover the money from the body. He handed the money over. “There you are.”

“Thank you!” Christensen could not believe his good fortune. “Thank you!”

“There’s one thing, though,” Nordberg said, almost as an afterthought. It had struck him that he really didn’t know how fast the poison would work, and he didn’t want the oaf to go running to the neighbors and telling them of his good fortune before it took him to bed for the last time. “I should not like my colleagues at the university to think me a fool for spending that much money on an obviously worthless collection of cheap costume jewelry. So while they may be conversation pieces, there is no need for anyone to know I went overboard in paying for them. So I would appreciate it if we could keep this business—well, just between the two of us.”

“Of course! I haven’t told anyone that I ever found the box, and there’s no need for me to ever tell anyone.” Christensen tucked the money deep into a pocket and bent to wrap the pieces roughly in their original packages. Nordberg did not stoop to help him, but when the packages were ready, he did deign to carry two of them out to his car and store them, together with the two that Christensen carried, into the trunk. He closed the trunk lid and turned to look at his distant cousin. He steeled himself. This was the moment to prove if he had the nerve to murder or not. And he knew that he did.

“I say,” he said as if the thought had just occurred to him—and again it seemed to be a different Arne Nordberg speaking. His voice sounded different even to his ears. “Do you like whiskey?”

“Very much!” Christensen said, and then seemed to realize the lack of hospitality on his part the question seemed to imply. “I never offered you a drink! I’m sorry. Here, let me get you—”

“No, no!” Nordberg waved the offer away. “I brought a bottle for you. Actually”—he tapped his stomach and smiled regretfully—“doctor’s orders. No alcohol for a long, long time. But someone gave me this bottle, rather fine stuff, imported, and since I’m not allowed it, I thought you might care for it.” He reached into his handbag and brought out the bottle, handing it over. “Here you are. Have some now. To—well, to sort of seal our deal.”

Knud Christensen grinned as he looked at the label. “My Lord! I haven’t seen anything this fine for a long, long time. Somebody’s wedding, I forget whose.”

“Yes, it’s good stuff. Have some now.”

Christensen shook his head, still grinning. “Not anything this fine, this good. This will have to wait for a proper occasion.”

“No, no!” Nordberg said hurriedly, and cursed his stupidity in bringing an expensive brand. “It—I mean, it really isn’t all that fancy. Have some and tell me how it is, in case—I mean, so I’ll know when the day comes the doctor lets me drink again …”

“It’s good. I don’t need to prove that.” Christensen studied the label again and then looked up, smiling gratefully. “It won’t go to waste, I promise.” He held out his hand. “And I want to thank you for everything.”

Nordberg stood and stared, incapable of thinking of any way to get the clod to drink the whiskey. Then, unable to do anything else, he shook the outstretched hand briefly and climbed into the car as Christensen stepped back and raised his hand in a slight salute, the bottle dangling from his other fist. For a moment Nordberg thought of making one final effort, but he knew it would only look suspicious. With a frozen face he put the car into gear and drove from the yard.

But if the oaf didn’t drink the whiskey today, he would drink it one of these days, certainly before any possible news of the treasure or its disposition ever got out. Maybe it was just as well that Christensen hadn’t drunk the whiskey while he had been there. He had no idea of just how fast the combination of drugs and alcohol acted. And occasions as an excuse for opening a bottle of fine whiskey, Nordberg was sure, came up with a great regularity—birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, whatnot. And one nice thing about having spent that much money for an expensive brand was that it was doubtful the big man would share it with others. Not that it would have bothered Nordberg if others suffered the consequences as well. It was just the fact that sharing might dilute the strength of the combination, and that would not do at all.

And, of course, he had the idiot’s promise not to mention the deal to anyone. It wasn’t everything, but it was about as much as he could have hoped for—and the fact remained that in the trunk of his ancient car at that very moment as he headed back to Copenhagen, he had the famous Schliemann treasure.

That was a fact!